


The Child

by nightflower



Series: GoT/The Mandalorian [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Star Wars, Alternate Universe - The Mandalorian, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, for The Mandalorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22620235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightflower/pseuds/nightflower
Summary: All at once, Jon is acutely aware of three things. He cannot complete this bounty. He must bring the child to Meereen. And he would undoubtedly be hunted by the Imperials who had hired him.*A "The Mandalorian" AU.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Daenerys Targaryen, pre-relationship Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: GoT/The Mandalorian [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627429
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	The Child

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to be particularly familiar with The Mandalorian / Star Wars to read this, but knowing the basics would probably help.
> 
> It's probably wrong of me to cover Jon's face with a helmet like this, but what can ya do?

Once his ship is back among the stars, the Mandalorian crouches beside the metal containment unit the tracking fob had led him to and frowns. His arm throbs where a blaster shot had grazed him. Thankfully, his beskar armor had eaten the rest of the damage meant for him. So many people had been willing to die for this bounty - so many of them had. 

The Mandalorian thinks that perhaps it would be best if he did not know what was inside the unit, but despite himself he reaches for the container and twists the handles on the sides. It opens smoothly, the lid disconnecting from the base with a hiss and neatly retracting.

For a long moment, Jon Snow stares. The bounty stares back.

He had received no information about the bounty, except that it was small. Jon had expected, perhaps, one of the smaller species that were scattered across the galaxy - not this.

The child looks human, but he doesn't need to consult any of the diagnostics available from his helmet to know that this is not the full truth. Silver-blond hair, purple eyes. Jon knows these traits, so uncommon among humans. So impossible among them. 

The child cannot be older than two. He’s too thin, that much is clear, but not entirely unhealthy. He reaches for Jon with pudgy fingers and smiles toothily. Unafraid despite the circumstances, and despite Jon’s hidden face.

Unthinkingly, Jon offers a gloved finger, and the child grabs on.

Silver hair, purple eyes. Human, but more than human. Even Jon, who had spent years drifting from bounty to bounty, knows what these traits mean and who has them. The Dragon Queen - the last scion of Old Valyria, a planet destroyed long before the Empire rose from the ashes of intergalactic war. The woman who, after the assassination of her husband and disappearance of her child, had burned her way through the Essosi system like the planets were just kindling. She had ended slavery there with well-earned ruthlessness. Jon had heard this in awed whispers, but had not been there since it had happened.

The child babbles. It sounds like he could be saying words, but if he is Jon can't understand them; it's not Galactic Standard or Mando'a. He squeezes Jon's hand, his smile widening when Jon returns the gesture.

All at once, Jon is acutely aware of three things. He cannot complete this bounty. He must bring the child to Meereen. And he would undoubtedly be hunted by the Imperials who had hired him.

+++

He remembers this: Small hands wrapped in his. High pitched laughter and the patter of footsteps. Gray eyes, a mirror of his own. Knowledge that [i]she is just like me[/i]. Little Arya Underfoot, his fast friend, his favorite sister. He remembers the last time he saw her, kneeling beside her in the snow in Winterfell’s courtyard, the day before everything went to shit. He remembers the smile on her face as they had thrown snowballs and had teamed up against Robb and Theon and been unstoppable together. 

+++

The outpost is on a barren desert world with little population to speak of; an inglorious fuel stop. It serves Jon's purposes, however, so he pilots the White Wolf through the unending blue sky until he sees the shabby cluster of buildings. There are two other ships already settled around the station, but there is nothing too alarming about them. Both are unadorned, and neither of them polished enough to gleam in the unrelenting sunlight. From above, he can see that one has a ramp resting on the dusty ground, but there aren’t any people around.

Once he’s landed and lowered the White Wolf’s loading ramp, Jon climbs down to the first floor, carrying the child with him. He leaves him in one of the storage compartments with a blanket, telling him to stay put. When Jon begins walking toward the ramp, a head of silver-blonde hair peeks out at him from the compartment. Suddenly, the door is sliding aside and the child is toddling after him on surprisingly steady feet.

"No," says Jon sternly. But the child either doesn't recognize the word - unlikely, at this point, he has said it more than enough times for the child to figure it out - or just ignores him. When the boy reaches him, he grabs at the edges of Jon's shin guards and clings.

Jon stares. The child stares back. His violet eyes are watery, and Jon finds himself wondering if he is about to cry. 

"Fine," Jon says, bending and picking the child up.

He goes about his business this way, with the child on his hip. The child keeps one hand in the seam of Jon’s breastplate, and the other on the silver handle he'd pulled off one of the controls. Thankfully, the makeshift toy keeps the child entertained while Jon speaks to the proprietor of the establishment with carefully maintained blandness. Jon is certain that the fact the child occasionally makes ‘whoosh’ sounds undercuts his seriousness, but the proprietor seems happy enough to have the business at all. 

When he exits - fuel, food, and a few spare parts purchased - Jon scans the area around the shop again. Another ship had landed at the outpost, more ragged than the others. Symbols are painted on the side in red, but Jon doesn’t recognize them. He hears people shouting at each other from one of the other ships, but it doesn’t seem like it’s about him. Jon eyes the newcomer suspiciously, but by the time he’s back at the White Wolf, nothing has changed. 

The child kicks up a fuss when Jon tries to leave him in the ship again, so Jon sighs and sets the child on the dirt with the ragged blanket he’d managed to dig up from one of the storage units. 

“You have to stay on this,” Jon says to the child sternly. He’s certain that the child has no idea what he’s saying, but the boy seems content enough to sit on the blanket for now. The fact that the sunbaked earth is burning hot probably has something to do with keeping the child still. 

After watching suspiciously for a moment, Jon takes the spare parts he’d acquired and begins working on one of the necessary repairs. He’s no mechanic, but by this point he’s got a good handle on how to keep the White Wolf running. 

He glances back at the child periodically to make sure he hasn’t moved off. At one point, the boy spots a lizard and seems to have a staring contest with it, but Jon is fairly certain it isn’t poisonous, so lets it be. 

There’s a crunching sound, like something heavy displacing dry dirt. Probably boots. Not a particularly unusual sound, at an outpost like this. Another crunch, softer - and this gets Jon’s full attention, because whoever is walking is trying to be stealthy. Jon sets down his tools, trying for casual, and does a quick scan of his surroundings. The boy is still sitting on the blanket, talking to the lizard, which hadn’t run away for some reason. 

Jon spots the edge of a boot from behind a stack of crates. The shadow from the painted ship, closest to the White Wolf, is slightly too long in one place. So, two potential targets, then.

Jon leans, as casually as he can, towards where his Amban rifle is propped against the side of his ship. 

Once the rifle in his hand, everything happens in quick succession: Jon shifts the rifle in his hands so he’s got his index finger on the trigger, the figure behind the crates leans out and fires, and the second figure sprints out from behind the landing gear of their ship. A blaster bolt pings against Jon’s beskar pauldron, but he had already braced himself for the hit and sways with the force instead of staggering. He seamlessly adjusts his rifle, sighting with the help of his HUD, and fires before the black clad figure can conceal themselves behind the crates again. The rifle shot leaves nothing but a cloud of quickly fading dust in its wake. 

Jon twists in place then, catching sight of the second figure as they rolled behind another haphazard stack of cargo. He has the impression of practical body armor and heavy boots; these must be professional hunters, then, tracking the beacon of the child. Another quick scan of the surroundings yields no more movement, except the proprietor he had interacted with earlier peering out from inside the shop. 

“Don’t move,” Jon hisses at the child, hoping that urgency will somehow impart understanding. The child watches with wide eyes, clutching at the blanket underneath him, motionless. 

Jon stalks forward, hearing the subtle crunch of dirt again as the hunter shifts their weight. Jon debates just shooting the hunter through the crates - but no, he only had a limited number of slugs. It wouldn’t do to just go disintegrating everything in his path when he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to get more ammo. Instead he moves quietly and efficiently, coming to stand with his back against the storage containers. He waits, keeping his eyes on the frightened child but his ears on his target. He can hear them shifting, getting antsy… Three… two…

The hunter came from the right, and Jon turns and thrusts the rifle forward, depressing one of the triggers. Electricity courses down the two-pronged head of the rifle, and the hunter collapses in a twitching heap, blaster falling just out of their reach.

When Jon turns on his heel to face the child again, he realizes that he had miscalculated. 

There is a third hunter. In the seconds that his back was turned, the third had crept from where they were hiding, somewhere behind White Wolf. Their dusty red helmet glints in the sunlight as they raise their blaster. 

"No!" Jon yells, lunging forward unthinkingly, knowing that there is not enough time - that there is no way he could put himself between the child and blaster fire.

As it turns out, he does not need to.

Jon stumbles to a halt, kicking up dust. The hunter is still holding up their blaster, but Jon can read the shock in their posture - the same shock he feels coursing through him. Between the three of them, the blaster shot hangs in midair, stopped by an invisible barrier. The pulsing red glow lights up the face of the child, who has one of his pale hands in the air, eyes shut, little brow furrowed in concentration.

The blaster bolt is not disappearing, Jon thinks distantly. It takes a moment for that information to penetrate his disbelief and turn into an 'Oh, shit.' Jon shakes himself and sprints forward again, wrapping himself around the child just as the barrier - whatever it is - fails. The blaster shot hits the center of his beskar backplate. The momentum pushes him forward, into the child, and he’ll be sore as hell later - but the child is safe.

Before the hunter can get their wits about them once again, Jon twists around and spins the rifle over his shoulder. With the magnification in his HUD, he can see the minute movements of their preparation - the shock bleeding away, the twitch of their arms. Jon adjusts, compensating for the awkward angle, and pulls the trigger.

With the last hunter taken care of, Jon turns his attention back to the child. He is slumped on the threadbare blanket, unconscious. Nervously, Jon rips off a glove and presses his fingers to the child's neck. His pulse is steady, if slightly fast. Jon gathers the child into his arms, turning his face so his cheek is on the blast-resistant fabric of Jon’s shirt rather than the armor. A quick scan of the surroundings yields no further danger, so Jon slings the rifle back over his other shoulder and marches up the ramp to his ship.

Once inside, he hurries back to the cockpit, and tucks the child back into the pram. After ensuring that the child was secure, Jon slides back into the pilot chair so they can leave before more hunters are brought to their position.

It isn't until much later that Jon is able to sit back with a sigh, contemplating what he had seen. Is this the power of Valyrian blood, that a human toddler can use skills such as these? Myths and magic aren't anything that Jon is familiar with, though he has heard the tales that tell of warriors who can use such powers and their place as enemies in the histories of Mandalore.

Jon turns away from the viewport, checking on the child once again. Instead of sleeping on when Jon’s hands find his pulse, the child stirs and blinks at him sleepily. Jon breathes a sigh of relief.

"So, little one. Is this because you are Valyrian, or is it something else?" Jon asks, expecting no answer. The child says - something - in response to the sound of Jon’s voice, yawning, and Jon wishes he had a translator around. He’s growing more and more sure that the child is saying words, even if Jon can’t understand them.

"I suppose it doesn't matter," Jon says quietly to himself, "even if it is unsettling."

+++

He remembers this: Bright summer sunlight streaming through green leaves. Targets nailed to branches. Gleaming red hair; a broad smile below blue eyes.

"Bet I can hit more than you, Snow!"

“No way!” he crows, though he knows that it’s true. 

They stay outside until their skin is blistered, and they don’t even mind the scolding they get. Or at least, he pretends not to.

Despite time and distance, he still remembers the sharp sting of disappointment when he was reprimanded for being a ‘bad influence’ to Winterfell’s heir, even if the details of Lady Stark’s disapproving face have faded. 

+++

On the day they’re due to arrive in Meereen, Jon begins the wake-cycle the same way he always does - with some additions. He checks on the child, who lifts his arms and says “Up!” It doesn’t matter how many times Jon prompts with please, the boy doesn’t seem at all interested in learning pleasantries in Basic. Jon picks him up anyway, gets him breakfast, and carries him up to the cockpit. 

Once there, he does his usual routine. Checking the autopilot, the navigation controls, the fuel levels. Jon’s ship is old, and it’s not improbable that something would quietly fail while he was resting. All is well, thankfully. Then he checks the communications and newsfeeds - in a populous star system like the Essosi, he’s more likely to get information from his alerts. This includes the typical things, like key events in the system and news from the guild. But it also includes his feeds on names from another life - Arya Stark, Sansa Stark… He has no reason to expect that he’ll ever hear news about his family again, and he isn’t sure that it is strictly speaking very Mandalorian of him to try after he has already sworn his oaths, but the questions still burn him even after all these years. 

Today, he adds another step to his routine, after he rescues the autopilot controls from the child’s grabbing hands. 

Jon records a message for Meereen’s flight control, and sends it without playing it back although he’s sure it has the occasional word from the child in the background. He’s not sure exactly how getting an audience with the Queen of Meereen works, but he hopes that mentioning he has news regarding her family will get him close. 

+++

He remembers this: The whirr of blaster fire, the high whine of grenades - the crash, the boom, the cloud of dust. His father's arms tight around him, the smell of his sweat and the sound of his voice. Strained but unafraid. He remembers the words his father had yelled in his gruff voice, telling Cat to go - [i]someone has to escape - to live[/i].

He remembers the sharp pain in his knees and his hands when he stumbled, the sting of scratches on his face. His father had kept a vice like grip on his hand, dragging him along behind him. He remembers wishing that he could be carried, shielded - remembers feeling guilty for wishing it. He’s eleven - he’s brave. He could be brave.

Red bolts cross their path and explode against the walls. Droids move in mechanical synchronicity. The doors to the crypts buzz open, and his father drags him along and settles him between the solemn statues of his aunt and uncle.

"Stay here, stay silent," his father says. Then something like, "I promised." His voice is low and desperate.

Then he is gone, and Jon is alone in the dark. He hugs his arms around himself and waits, feeling the ground shake from explosions.

The dark is so deep that he begins to see flickers of imagined light. He feels his warmth being leached away by the cold stones of the tombs. He listens to blaster fire and shouting. As time goes on, there is less sound. He doesn't know if that is good or bad, but he thinks it might be bad.

He wonders if Lady Stark managed her escape, pictures her as she had been - dragging Arya behind her with Bran clutched in her arms. He hadn't seen Robb, but he'd been practicing with Ser Rodrik in the range. Sansa had been somewhere in the castle when the Separatist’s ships had begun their descent. Maybe his father had gone to find her.

He remembers hugging his knees, thinking hard, repeating a mantra. [i]Please, please. Let them be safe.[/i]

Hours pass, or maybe days, and he is jerked from twisted dreams to panicked awareness by the scrape of stone on stone.

"Do not be afraid," a helmeted man says, voice distorted by the mic of his helmet. He offers a hand, and after hesitating, Jon takes it. The man pulls him into his arms easily. Blood and ash coat the surface of the man's armor. The plates dig into Jon's skin, but he does not complain.

Once they are on the surface, Jon realizes with quiet horror that his prayers have not been answered. More helmeted warriors are exchanging fire with battle droids; through the dust and smoke, he can make out no familiar faces.

The armored warrior holding him exchanges words with another. Then, the jetpack on his back roars to life and they rise. Up and up, above the flames and the crumbling walls of Winterfell Castle.

He remembers this: Ned Stark's head on a spike, just outside the walls. Fallen ships dotting the show, marked by pillars of billowing black smoke. His eyes blurring with tears as the armored warrior says, "We will protect you. This is the way."

+++

There is a woman waiting on the steps of the palace. Jon hesitates, but the message had said that he would be expected. Still, he watches for a moment. People pass her by, even the few that ascend the steps. The Queen of Meereen has weekly audiences with her people; this is one of those days, he has learned. But he thinks his news needs more privacy than a full court.

The woman is tall and thin, with a healthy glow to her brown skin. Her hair is dark brown and curly. She’s wrapped in blue silks, a style of dress that seems typical - though her clothes are made out of particularly high quality material, even Jon can tell that. Gold earrings hang from her ears, and a sapphire gleams from where it’s nestled on her collarbone. 

The pram, floating at his side, is part way open so that the child can see without being easily seen. After checking that it’s still tethered to his vambrace, Jon approaches the woman. Her eyes meet his, as close as she can manage with his helmet in the way, and she offers a smile that looks almost genuine.

"I am Missandei," she says, "And I will guide you to the receiving room."

"Well met," Jon says. Missandei hesitates for a moment, perhaps expecting the courtesy of his own name. He does not speak further, and she turns to lead the way up the sandy steps.

He is made to surrender his rifle, but they do not search him for other weapons. They scan the pram but do not look inside. Jon isn't sure if this is carelessness or confidence. By the look of the vibrospear-wielding warriors, he would guess the latter.

Meereen is a desert world, but a wealthy one. Even with the obliteration of the slave trade, it has maintained its wealth. There are mines pulling up precious stones, creatures that can be hunted for good food and fine clothing. There are factories for droids and universities for its people. The Good Masters had created these things, and Daenerys Targaryen had reforged them in her fire.

That wealth surrounds him now, so foreign to one first born in a culture with more pride than money, and raised in one that put weapons and armor before comfort. The palace gleams in gold and pearl. Even though his beskar shines in its own utilitarian way, Jon feels out of place. The courtiers and even the servants they pass wear fine silks, just as Missandei does. Her thin sandals make almost no noise as she glides across the polished marble floors, and Jon feels like a mudhorn clomping along behind her.

The opulence only increases as they walk deeper into the palace. A murmur of voices also becomes more apparent, and Jon realizes they must be approaching the court itself.

"I thought I would receive a private audience."

"Anything that is said to Her Grace can be said to her court. Her people, " Missandei says. Jon admires the fierce pride in her voice, even though the sentiment seems nonsensical to him. Every state has its secrets.

"This is... A personal matter. I do not think -"

Missandei stops, forcing him to stop as well, and turns to look at him critically. "You are not the first off-worlder to come here, claiming to have 'personal matters' with our queen. You will meet her with an audience, or not at all."

This objection makes more sense. Grimace hidden behind his helm, Jon says, "Lead on."

Jon had faced countless enemies - Imperial soldiers, other bounty hunters, thieves and murderers - but he thinks he has never been quite so nervous as he is during the approach to the Meereenese court. Pomp and circumstance were not familiar to him. His memories of the court of Winterfell were vague at best, and outright unhelpful at worst; mostly, when he tries to conjure the gloomy great hall of his childhood, he remembers being bored.

They come to a pair of massive red double doors, laced with gold filigree. Two warriors in fine leather stand at either side, gleaming vibrospears held upright. At a gesture from Missandei, one of them presses a button on a discrete panel and the door opens just enough for the two of them to slip through.

The Queen of Meereen sits on a throne of gold and silver, on top of a marble dias several feet above the rest of the chamber. Her hair is silver-blond and her eyes like amethysts. A dress is draped intricately around her slender figure, the scarlet fabric edged in black. Her bearing, her very presence spoke of power; chin held high, expression solemn, hands resting on the arms of her throne.

To Jon's chagrin, it is only after he has admired her that he remembers himself and scans the room. Small, discreet doors line the walls, presumably leading back into the warrens of tasteful palace halls. Even grander doors than the ones Missandei had directed him through stand at the far end of the hall; a main entrance for supplicants, perhaps. It appears that Missandei has allowed him to cut the line, even though he hasn’t been granted the private audience he desired. There are warriors everywhere, standing to attention at each exit and along the walls. The members of the court sit on chairs flanking the throne, garbed a rainbow of finery, fanning themselves as they watch the proceedings.

A woman stands at the foot of the throne, head bowed. She must be a citizen of Meereen, wearing sunbleached linens and worn sandals. His entrance clearly hasn’t drawn much attention from her or the court; she continues speaking of some troubles she has been having with mercenaries on the outskirts of the city. The woman finishes speaking with a quiet ‘Your Grace’, and seems to shrink into herself now that she’s had her say.

The Queen of Meereen’'s cold facade breaks then, and she warms the room with her smile. Jon can’t bring himself to look away.

"I have heard your grievance, and agree that reparation must be made. The details are not for here and now; you will be made comfortable in my home, and we will speak again."

"Thank you, Your Grace," the woman says. Her gratitude is genuine - it shines through her voice and in her eyes. One of the warriors peels away from his station by one of the smaller doors, and gently leads her out of the throne room.

Missandei steps forward, then. 

"Your Grace, the Mandalorian."

Taking his cue, Jon steps into the place the woman had been occupying moments ago and gives a shallow bow. He doesn’t hesitate before he begins to speak, though apprehension leaves him clenching and unclenching his gloved fists. 

"Your Grace, I had hoped for a private audience. There is no easy way to say what I must say."

Daenerys sounds almost bored. "You shall not get it. Speak."

Jon shrugs internally. He'd tried, anyway. He considers, for a moment, how he should approach this. He had wanted to tell the whole story, so the context would handle some of the Queen’s well-deserved incredulity. But from the look on her face, and on Missandei’s, he suspects that a long-winded story will simply get him removed from the court before he can finish. 

Taking a steadying breath, he speaks.

"I've found your son."

This sets off a flurry of murmurs, and the guards around the room all stiffen.

Daenerys sits up straighter, and looks down her nose at him. Her hands clench the arms of her throne so hard that Jon is surprised he cannot hear the metal creak under the strain. 

He swallows hard. Perhaps the story would have been a better approach after all. If looks could kill, he would already be a pile of ash a dozen times over.

"My son," Daenerys hisses, enunciating every painful syllable, "is dead. And no number of thieves and liars coming to my court will change this truth.

Unsullied," she calls, voice echoing like a bell, "Seize him!"

Two of the closest warriors peel away from their posts and heft their vibrospears. More of the warriors along the walls seem to be preparing themselves for motion. Jon might be an expert warrior, but he doesn’t like the odds of fighting his way out of the Meereenese at all. And he doesn't want it to come to that, besides.

"Wait!" he calls, but of course they don't heed him. The warriors - the Unsullied - grab him by the arms, forcing them behind him. Jon tamps down on the instinct to struggle. "All you need to do is look, and you'll see!" He nods to the pram, the only gesture left to him.

Scowling, Daenerys holds up a hand and her guards cease restraining him, though they keep their gloved hands on his armor. She stands abruptly from her throne, and stalks down the steps. The red fabric of her dress trails after her, and pools like blood on the stone when she comes to a halt before the pram. Jon is struck again by how beautiful she is; even through his visor he can see the color anger has put on her cheeks, can see the gleam of her violet eyes.

"Well?"

"All you need to do is open it," he says, making no move to do so himself. It would take some doing to hurt him through his armor, but Jon has a feeling these warriors could do it.

It's Missandei who steps forward then, crouching beside the pram and fiddling with the controls until the cover is completely opened. Jon knows the moment that Daenerys sees the child, because her anger drains away and is replaced by shocked stillness.

"No," she breathes, "This is not - this is not possible... Rheago, my Rheago... How - "

She steps forward slowly, moving as if she's walking through water. Without prompting, Missandei gestures to the warriors. The ones gripping him step away, while others come forward and begin ushering away the shocked court. The child leans forward, staring intently. Then he smiles so wide that it must hurt, and lifts his little arms. Jon isn't sure if he truly recognizes his mother, who he apparently has hardly seen in his short life - but he is capable of amazing things, so perhaps he does.

Daenerys bends and picks up the child, staring into his face. The depth of the emotion in her eyes makes Jon turn away from the reunion. What feels like a long time passes, and Jon makes a study of the wall while mother and child get reacquainted. She says something in a harsh, guttural language that Jon doesn’t recognize, and the child - Rheago… his name is Rheago. Rheago repeats some of the sounds the Jon has been hearing in the past few weeks, and a watery smile finds its way onto Daenerys’ face. 

"I do not have the words in any language to express my gratitude to you," Daenerys says, barely able to raise her striking gaze from the child clutched in her arms. "I thought -" her voice cracks, "I thought that..."

She squeezes the bundle in her arms and Rheago coos and says something. Daenerys' eyes are shining and she chokes on a laugh.

Finally, she looks at him fully, expression suddenly determined. "You have given me the world, Mandalorian. Name a boon, and you shall have it."

Jon thinks of credits, of beskar, of other foundlings the covert might save and what they will need. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is: "It isn't over yet."

"What do you mean?"

"The hunters, they have tracking beacons. They will be able to find the child - find Rheago - easily, even here."

Silence hangs over the room, as the Queen and her closest companions consider this carefully, turning the news over in their heads.

"Then, Mandalorian, I would instead offer you a job."

"A job?"

"You brought Rheago this far. Serve as a bodyguard for my child, until this danger has passed or you must go."

Jon hardly has to think before he says, "Yes."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are much appreciated!


End file.
